The Horse That Danced

I’ve always loved horses. I grew up with them and was first plonked on top of a solid, box-shaped Shetland at the tender age of three. Apparently I howled so loudly that I had to be removed before the pony decided to press her eject button. But that didn’t diminish my enduring love for these noble creatures. I rode horses and ponies of various dimensions every day – it didn’t matter to me what they were like. Well actually it did a bit. I had my favourite, my best friend.

I’ll never forget the day I watched my horse being born. I was ten years old and already late for school, but my mum allowed me those precious minutes to marvel at what literally unfolded before me. With relative ease a gangly foal appeared, still cocooned, but not for long. His mum performed a miraculous clean-up job and there he was. “That’s your young horse, Beth,” said my wonderful mum, “you’ll grow up together.” And we did. For the next ten years we were inseparable.

Many years, and what seems to be a lifetime later, my French friend Andrée and I were walking our dogs in the forest here in France. Knowing how I felt about horses she told me about an equestrian event that was coming up in a few days’ time. A serious car accident had forced me to give up riding but my fascination for these proud beasts has never diminished. I listened carefully to Andrée but, as usual, my scant knowledge of the French language let me down when it came to the detail. I gathered that it was an evening show of some kind that involved horses but that was about it. H’m interesting!

Andrée particularly wanted to go because her granddaughter would be involved and she thought I might like to see her ride. It was taking place in a little village about 20 kilometres from us and would I like to go with her. Of course I jumped at the chance. I double-checked with Jack, my husband to see if he would like to join us, but I needn’t have bothered. Unsurprisingly he reminded me of his dislike for anything that moves without the aid of an accelerator or gearbox. He concluded by informing me he’d rather chew on a bag of nails. That was that then. I left him in glorious solitude, well nearly. He had a couple of dogs sprawled over his feet, a cat on his lap, and looked completely content as he nursed his bottle of lager.

I was duly collected and we set off along a route that Andrée knew well. She said it was fairly quiet which proved to be a magnificent understatement. We meandered through the countryside that was mainly decorated with orchards or forest. Dumpy farmhouses nestled comfortably in their own domaines, peppered with vines, or the huge Blonde Aquitaine cattle and the occasional farm dog. The road was lined by plane trees in full leaf, shading the road with their graceful boughs, it was perfect French scenery. But quiet? Certainly that. I don’t remember any other vehicles on that road for the first 19 kilometres – perfect.

We reached the village in good time and approached a field that was stuffed full of parked cars, easily more than 200. “Gosh, what’s going on here?” I innocently asked my friend, barely able to believe that there were so many car owners in the district.

“It is the show of course. People travel a long way to see it.” Andrée had got me again.

There I was thinking it would be a minor affair, clearly I was quite wrong about that. Now, completely intrigued, I joined Andrée in the long trudge to the entrance.

As I grilled her for more information we joined the crowds and entered ‘Festiberique’, an Iberian-themed world that was filled with the sights, sounds and the scents of horses. They were everywhere. Oh, and a lama too – although that didn’t take part in the proceedings. Beer tents, barbeques, and stands that sold various goods, surrounded an arena that had grassy mounds for spectators on two sides and a marquee on another. It was not at all what I’d expected.

Before we settled down Andrée asked if I had eaten and, being the consummate team mum that she is, clucked disapprovingly when I replied “no”. Decision made, I had to have something before we settled down. We immediately headed for the food area and met several members of her family along the way, one of whom indulgently stuck a big plastic tray in my hand loaded with chips, merguez sausage and a great wodge of bread. I was good to go. 

We parked ourselves on a hillock and prepared to watch what the French term a Spectacle équestre, a show designed to celebrate and exhibit the athleticism of horses and their riders. And it really was.

Troupes of riders wearing magnificent Spanish flamenco costumes paraded before us, but it was not they who danced to the music that rang out from the speakers, it was their horses. It was an amazing demonstration of dressage as the animals performed intricate moves, wowing the crowds with their power and majesty. I was instantly in heaven.

Next came a series of what might be termed rodeo stunt displays. I was amazed by one rider and his horse in particular. Between them they created acrobatic movements that I’d seen on television, but never in real life. Using the saddle as a gymnast uses a vaulting horse, the rider sprang from one side of the animal to the other, touching down on the ground in rhythm to his cantering partner. He swung under the saddle, up again, then reached a standing position, posturing for the crowd as his steed continued to circle the arena at a steady canter. It was remarkable.

Then there was a completely different kind of demonstration. A horse and a human entered side-by-side, the man tiny in comparison to his fellow performer. There was no saddlery on this animal and, using the dressage whip as a prompt rather than correction tool, the man directed the horse through a series of extraordinarily complex movements. 

These required enormous strength and agility. There was hushed silence as we watched, spellbound by the display that unfolded before us, thrilled by what we saw. Their finale was equally impressive and particularly poignant when the horse lay on the ground gently cushioning his co-star. It was definitely a true partnership.

The mood abruptly changed. Circus music blared raucously out of the speakers as two gymnasts, and their dancing dogs, burst into the ring. I wasn’t quite sure which were the most agile, the dogs, which seemed to be made of elastic, or the man who managed quite extraordinary moves with his somewhat hefty female counterpart. Either way it was highly entertaining. Then came a donkey accompanied by a nun. I wasn’t quite sure what that was all about, but it certainly caused great hilarity and cheers from the crowd as the pair of them cavorted in an ungainly fashion across the ring.

Horses wearing hats and pulling traps appeared and charged pell-mell around in circles. One of the carriages was accompanied by a magnificent bay stallion ridden by a lady in flamenco dress. Why? I have no idea, but they were stunning - this was entertainment at its best.

Then a team of four horses burst in, driven by a man standing on the backs of two of them. As the crowd cheered and applauded I was reminded of the film, Ben Hur, and the great chariot race, how on earth did he manage to keep his balance on those grey racers? 

At this stage I was fairly breathless with excitement. It had all been so completely different to what I’d expected. Irritatingly I kept nudging Andrée, babbling questions which, good as gold, she indulgently answered whilst tutting over the occasional minor error a rider or horse might have made. Not me, I was thrilled to the core, and there was more to come.

Another horse entered the arena with its rider bearing fire brands. I don’t know of any creature that isn’t instinctively terrified of fire so I was astounded by how trusting the animal was as the rider performed a series of unimaginably difficult juggling acts on horseback. With flaring nostrils and proud gait the brave horse bore its dangerous cargo without flinching once. It was incredibly impressive.

I have always been fascinated by Lipizzaners. This is a breed of horse closely associated with the Spanish Riding School of Vienna, Austria, where they demonstrate the haute école or “high school” movements of classical dressage, including the highly-controlled, stylized jumps and other movements known as the “airs above the ground”. 

The horses at the Spanish Riding School are trained using traditional methods that date back hundreds of years, based on the principles of classical dressage.

I wasn’t familiar with the breed of horse that entertained us next, but this group struck a remarkable resemblance to the famous Lipizzaner. They were full of pizazz and flair. With tails carried high, arched necks and expressions of fierce pride they went through a series of movements that drew gasps of wonder and admiration from the crowd. Sometimes working as a team, their levels of synchronisation were precise, and measured. I stared in wonder at these amazing athletes. Were they enjoying themselves? They certainly seemed to be.

It was very dark now. The arena lights came down as the troupe made their exit to rapturous applause. For a moment it was pitch black – the audience began whispering expectantly.

Now there were movements in the centre of the sandy ménage, but I couldn’t make out what they were. An announcement was made; this seemed to be the star of the show. I looked around me and there was a sea of faces waiting with baited breath to see what was going to happen next. The evening had been a resounding success. I couldn’t possibly imagine anything that could top what we’d already seen.

The lights gradually came up, together with haunting music played by a lone harpist seated in the centre of the arena. The ethereal music threaded its way through the loudspeakers, enveloping the entranced audience. Andrée nudged me gently. With an expression of pride spreading across her face she whispered, “Now you will see Léna and her horse, Swany.”

A beautiful grey mare glided into the ring, ridden by a young woman in costume, who bore a striking resemblance to her grandmother. Her horse had no bridle, simply a ficelle, a string around its neck. What followed was a feat of horsemanship that so far had not been rivalled that night. Horse and rider flowed in perfect harmony to the harp music. 

Intricate dressage movements interchanged with explosive actions. The horse bucked, the horse kicked backwards, the horse high-stepped. Then the horse reared up and danced for the crowd. It was truly magical.

All too soon their stunning performance came to an end, but Lena had saved the best till last. Somehow in the darkness she had spotted her grandmother and other family members in the crowd. She and Swany performed a graceful bow directly in front of us and then they quietly lay down together as the music from the harp faded away. 

Part of me wanted to holler my applause and cry “Bravo!” Instead, like most of the others there that night, I silently mopped up a tear of emotion. It had been a brilliant exhibition from a horse and rider who had spent as long together as I had with my horse, Sam. They obviously shared an incredible bond.

Finally the spectacular ended and it was time to go home. We said our “au revoirs” to the various family members who had turned up to support Léna, and trudged back to our car. We chatted animatedly about the event as we retraced our steps along the deserted road. Me, bursting with thanks for the invitation, and admiration for the performers, especially Léna and Swany. Andrée was understated as usual but, I suspect, full of justifiable pride. They really were the true stars of the show.

Huh, and they say nothing happens in our little corner of France!

(I am extremely grateful to Léna, and also Fantastika: Justine Vegas and Pascale Scherer, for allowing me to use some their photos to show you the amazing partnership Léna shares with Swany.)

It’ll go up in Flames!

“Can I take my drone?” pleaded Jack, my husband, looking lovingly at his strange flying machine.

“Perhaps, but you’d better ask permission, some folks don’t like them at all,” I replied, instantly worried that he was going to start dive-bombing innocent revellers in his enthusiasm to capture the moment on film.

The question arose because of an annual event that was about to take place in our tiny village. A veritable dot on a landscape of French meadows and orchards, one is barely able to use up all fingers and toes when counting the population. But this weekend was going to be different, it was the Feu de la St Jean, (fire of St John) which attracts hordes!

So what on earth is the Feu de la St. Jean?

Some believe that the tradition was introduced to Europe by Celtic tribes around 3000 years ago. However, when Christianity became the official religion in France during the fifth century, pagan rites were shown the red card. They could not be allowed to continue. On the other hand, the French do like a good fire (a key feature of this event), so an artful compromise was required.  

The Church of Rome, realising it wasn’t going to stop the headstrong rural communities from lighting up once a year, came up with an ingenious decision. They moved the pagan Summer Solstice festivity to coincide with that of St John the Baptist. This tactic was particularly brilliant because the two festivals both carry the symbol of light. One celebrates the sun, the other celebrates the prophet, John the Baptist, who symbolically opened the door to the light by announcing the coming of Jesus of Nazareth. Voilà!

Traditionally, a bonfire is lit using wood gathered by the youngsters of the village. Less health and safety conscious in those days, one of the customary rites was for young, unmarried people to jump over the bonfire if they wanted to find their soul-mate before the end of the year. It was also a rite of passage and acceptance for younger teenagers, who then became officially accepted into the group of bachelors. Equally, it was a way to bless the harvest to come. So, all in all, there was quite a lot going on.

In a village like ours where life is modelled on the rhythm of seasons and the weather, the logic of revelling in the Feu de la Saint Jean makes perfect sense. The main organiser is our dog walking pal Joel, aka le prof. A master of delegation, he stage manages the process like the conductor of an orchestra, directing his team players with poise and determination.

Building a bonfire

Jack’s job was wood supply man, which quickly became an exercise in anger-management. He spent several days under supervision, arranging then re-arranging planks in a particular order until le prof was satisfied that they were aesthetically pleasing. This was extremely testing for my short-tempered husband who insisted that a plank was a plank and why should it matter if one was prettier than the other. Fortunately, our language differences lent a hand which saved le prof from the niceties of his more acerbic remarks. Joel completely ignored Jack’s twitterings, doggedly pointing at timbers to be rejected and others to be subbed which were easier on the eye. Finally he was satisfied.

The next job was witch-construction. (I’m still somewhat lost about the legend regarding sorceresses, but I suspect it has something to do with banishing the evil spirits. Absolute bonus if that’s the case, one feels.) Le prof and the witch-construction crew did a marvellous job in building five corkers, but there was one worry. Joel was concerned about witch number three and her skirt of ribbons. I eventually persuaded him that it really didn’t matter that her colourful floaty skirt caught the breeze every now and again, revealing all, nevertheless he insisted on stapling a few strips to her wooden knees in the interests of modesty.

Final preparations

The day of the momentous event finally arrived. I was on table decorations, which brought with it highs and lows. The outstanding high was to be helped by my little mate Matteo. Son of a neighbour, and no doubt soon to become the cause of heart breaks amongst many a mademoiselle, he’s a stalwart companion when it comes to floral art.

The afternoon was spent gathering and arranging various blooms but we soon realised that we were undersupplied. This was a quandary. Suddenly Matteo had an excellent idea – why not snip a few from the village rose borders? No-one would notice and we could complete the job in double quick time. Well done that boy!

We crept out with our pannier and secateurs and began stealthily ferreting around the roses. Snipping here and there, we persuaded ourselves that we were simply tidying things up, and actually, performing a great service to the village. Unfortunately our logic wasn’t shared by everyone. On our return to the workstation we were met by a gentleman who is almost completely round and rather red in the face. This was a worry – we’d been rumbled by the village municipal plant man.

Monsieur looked disapprovingly at our posy-filled pannier, and started talking very fast and animatedly. Matteo stared, owl-eyed, the picture of innocence (which I should add he does awfully well) which left me, l'étranger, as perpetrator of the crime. Once again our language barrier lent a hand which enabled me to plead some level of blamelessness, backed up with a barrage of vraiment désolés (very sorrys). This eventually stopped monsieur, who was no doubt trying to understand what I was babbling.

Then there was a pause.

We watched nervously as he puffed out his chest, which caused him to look alarmingly like an inflatable beach ball. Aside from a potential pop, we had no idea what was going to happen next – this man was unpredictable at best.

Whatever I’d said seemed to hit the spot because, to our relief, he dissolved into a wobbling mass of giggles and started slapping his thighs hysterically. With tears of mirth cascading between his bristles he pointed at our efforts, declared they were "insuffisant" and encouraged us to pick more. There are times when my mauling of the French language does come in handy. That said, my comprehension level is never likely to be capable of unravelling the intricacies of the local sense of humour.

Mightily relieved that we weren’t going to banished we finished our job and I looked in on the catering team. Slaving away, making short work of heaps of salad mixings and couscous, the ladies were a dream-team to behold. I said my “à bientôts” and returned home to a happy husband. Le prof thought his idea to bring the drone was a great one!

Sangria with a twist

Despite rushing through my animal chores I was pushed for time. In my haste to get ready I tugged on the nearest set of clothes, accidentally choosing a pair of very tight shoes in the process. No matter, I thought, we wouldn’t be involved in any disco dancing that’s for sure.

When we arrived, throngs of party-goers were already pouring in – set on being thoroughly pagan for the night. Most adults made a bee-line for the extremely un-French sangria apéritif, while their children marvelled at the sorcières (witches) including the one with the skirt nailed to her knees. We had invited four friends to join us. They had never been before and were intrigued to learn what all the fuss was about. The French couple arrived promptly followed a little while later by our Italian friends, Melita and Carlo. They are usually fashionably late and always slightly flustered.

Poor Melita had just returned from work and was more frazzled than usual. She is a fruit sorter in a local apple farm and a big order had come in late on that day. Everyone had to work overtime to deal with it which meant that Melita was hot, tired and clearly very thirsty. She knocked back the first glass of sangria in double quick time, smacked her lips with satisfaction and declared it to be non-alcoholic. Before I could make the obvious correction, she followed up with two more in rapid succession.

The evening got underway in fine spirits, mostly aided by the sangria, which we were later told was laced with l’eau de vie, a highly-alcoholic colourless fruit brandy.

A sausage situation

We sat down at the long trestle tables not a moment too soon so far as my feet were concerned. Taking a moment to acquaint ourselves with our fellow diners and admire the floral decorations, we tucked into our starter of melon and ham. This was accompanied by chunks of bread, periodically lobbed in our general direction by Jean-Pierre, the local boulanger. He was followed by Jacques, who owns a local vineyard. Fortunately his idea of service is rather more elegant. Label-less bottles filled with red and rose wines where positioned at strategic intervals. The moment the level dropped below halfway the bottle would be whisked away and replaced with another. Everything was going to plan nicely until…

Our party atmosphere was abruptly interrupted by the electronic screeching sounds of feedback from the microphone. It was le prof and he had an announcement. Everybody listens when le prof has something to say. He delivered his message to the hushed audience like a seasoned master of ceremonies.

It seems that there had been a sausage glitch. Despite clouds of smoke coming from the coals, the barbecue was not hot enough, and our main course was still raw. Nobody wants to eat uncooked, chewy Toulousian specials so remedial action was called for and, as usual, le prof had everything under control.

The stage was lit up, music filled the salle des fête and the planned cabaret was brought forward a course. It was brilliant. A young troupe of actors entertained us royally with their pagan high jinks and superb acting, causing raucous laughter and wild applause as they cavorted about the stage. But as quickly as it began, it had to come to an end. The sausages were ready.

Yet more wine arrived, supplied once again by Jacques, who was had now taken on a rosy hue. This was followed rapidly by new supplies of bread, hurled from afar by Jean-Pierre, who looked as though it was time for someone else to take over. Called to order once more, we dutifully traipsed over to the buffet table to be served by the couscous-building team and actors-turned-waiters. The whole process ran like a well-oiled machine.

Most of us fell on our melange of Toulouse and red, spicy merguez sausages with gusto but there was one exception in our party. Jack is a die-hard English sausage lover and loftily considers the French version to be a disgraceful substitute. Worse still for the poor dear, he was saddled with a generous spoonful of couscous, which he assures me looks like maggots and probably tastes the same. With a doleful expression he bravely shovelled his meat mountain to one side, waded through his hill of mixed salad and chewed on his doorstep of bread. That done, he announced his intention to fire up the drone – which was most concerning.

UFO!

It was getting dark now but I could still make out the incongruous shape of his flying machine as it hovered ethereally in the gathering gloom. Luckily his test-flight had gone largely unnoticed and was uneventful. He returned quickly, flushed with enthusiasm. It had worked like clockwork and was ready to capture the main event on film.

Soon after we were heralded once more by le prof. He battered his scratchy microphone and announced that it was time for us to witness the Feux de St Jean.

This required movement. I got up and immediately sat down again with a wince. To my horror I saw that my feet looked like bloaters and had swollen considerably inside my tiny shoes. Not a pretty sight at all. Jack stared quizzically at me as I staggered towards him.

“What’s wrong with you? Have you had too much to drink?”

“Not at all! It’s these shoes, they’re agony.”

“Oh right, what bad luck. Well you can’t take them off here, the gravel will shred your feet. Go and prop yourself up again that tree, while I start filming from the drone, you won’t be in the way there.”

Ignoring his supportive advice I tottered in step with Melita, who was decidedly glassy-eyed, walking as well as me and beside herself with excitement.

Pagan drums filled the air with their rhythmic beats, spotlit trees surrounding the bonfires cast crazy shadows on the ground – then the first flames curled their way around each of the five sorcières.

The music switched dramatically with split second timing as fireworks exploded around the pyres. Children gasped with excitement, thrilled by the scenes that were unfolding before them. The fires kindled and gathered intensity, somehow in time to the strange primitive music. We stared in wonder as the sorcières, one by one, were banished from the village in a cloud of smoke. Suddenly Melita grabbed my sleeve.

“UFO!” she gasped, pop-eyed, pointing towards the sky.

Obviously a universally understood term, I followed the direction of her trembling digit and realised what it was. Jack’s machine had taken to the skies again and was flying dangerously close to the burning effigies. Surely it would catch fire from there!

There wasn’t enough night left to try and explain the intricacies of drones to my sangria-soaked friend. Instead I placated her by explaining that it was only Jack. Oddly enough she accepted my response without comment.

Spectacularly spectacular

By now the dark sky was filled with the flames of our five burning bonfires. The music changed again, this time there was a melodic feel to the tempo. Our troupe of actors burst onto the scene, grabbing spectators one after the other until they formed a dancing ring around the raging furnace. I tried my best to hide, but it was no good, someone grasped my hand and dragged me and my fat toes to join the solstice revellers. I staggered and stumbled around, trying to forget that I was in screaming agony as I joined in the cheers and hollas and delighted laughter of the crowd.

Fortunately the dancing didn’t last long. It was interrupted by a tremendous jet of blinding-white light that shot up from the earth. The fireworks had begun. Once again children and adults alike gasped in wonder and the thrilling light show. Purple explosions vied with red and orange sparkles, each cartwheeling across the skies in an extraordinarily spectacular way. Different formations had different sounds, some whizzing, others sputtering into life and most ending with a booming explosion. It was an amazing finale to fantastic evening.

Most of us hung around awhile after, absorbing the celebratory atmosphere. The youngsters returned to the salle des fête to prepare for the disco, the very thought of which caused my toes to surrender completely. Instead we said our goodbyes to our friends. They were overjoyed with their first attendance at this incredibly well-run event and pledged to come again next year.

Propped up by Jack, we began walking back to the car, turning one last time to glimpse the burning embers of the bonfires. I stopped quickly, nudging Jack to look properly. There, clear as anything, was an ancient grand-mère cheering raucously, encouraging a young grandchild to jump over the bonfire to the anguished sounds of “Oh, la, la” probably coming from the non-pagan mum. It was then that I realised Melita probably wasn’t the only one who thought the sangria apéritif was non-alcoholic.

It was another wonderfully memorable evening in our little corner of France thanks to our friends and in particular le prof - a conductor and master of ceremonies extraordinaire.

Postscript

Here are some extracts from the drone footage.

https://1drv.ms/v/s!AjKaKBSR9uRyhHxbVyrXqqv_tS5e

The Saga of the Chipped Tooth

“Do we have to? I bloody hate going to the dentist,” my husband, Jack, groaned.

“Don’t make such a fuss,” I replied, “at least you haven’t got a problem, I’ve got a chipped tooth that needs sorting out.”

“Well that’s your fault for eating all those sodding apples isn’t it? I told you all this healthy eating wasn’t good for you.”

Not many of us look forward to a trip to the dentist, but needs must. When we first came to France I had no idea how to register with services such as a dental clinic, but fortunately it turned out to be fairly easy. Taking care to heed advice from those with a headful of pearly-white gnashers, I ignored protestations from my mainly-toothless husband and booked us in for an appointment with a local dentist.

Sadly, our first attempt ended in failure. The highly recommended clinic was located halfway down a gritty backstreet and hidden behind a very large security door. The access buzzer rarely worked, which meant loitering outside and waiting for someone to wake up and activate the unlocking procedure. Once open, one was faced with an interminably long, very steep flight of stairs which led to yet another security door. It was not uncommon to meet a straggler mid-ascent, hanging on to the bannister gasping for breath.

Inevitably, the climb meant that upon their arrival at the reception desk patients had worked up a decent sweat. This is probably why the desk was never attended, which meant hanging around until the receptionist decided the patient was no longer a health hazard. The only distraction here was the ominous collection of dentures which glared ghoulishly out of an old glue pot.

The next leg of this dental visit marathon was the requirement to spend a very long period in a box termed la salle d’attente. It happened every time. Patients would be directed to the waiting room, which housed several cracked plastic chairs and a coffee table piled high with an assortment of heavily soiled, dog-eared magazines. Heeding the sage advice of my Grandma, who told me that one could never be sure what previous users had been fiddling with, I have always avoided reading material like this.

Internet connection and mobile phone signals never functioned in the Tardis-like salle d’attente, so the only form of entertainment was to examine the wall art. I tried not to, but the macabre side of my nature always got the better of me. The walls were covered in ancient posters. These displayed a series of grisly teeth, mostly in various states of decay, and one of a strangely coloured, slightly furry tongue. The only cheerleader in this grim collection was a perky post-it note sized photo displaying a tube of toothpaste. This probably contained a wise reminder about the importance of brushing one’s teeth. However, it was lost on all but the very young, and those with acute vision, because the writing was miniscule.

In contrast to his office decor, Docteur Boureau, the dentist, was a very pleasant man. And refreshingly clean. He had piercing blue eyes and a magnificent handlebar moustache, which despite being pinned down by the straps, sprouted defiantly either side of his surgical mask. I felt it was a very French look. There were two tiny glitches though. The main one was his speech, he was a mumbler. Try as I might, it was awfully difficult to understand what was going on behind that mask as it gently puffed up and down in time to his sotto voce tones. This created a lingering anxiety that I might inadvertently agree to unwanted dental action of a permanent kind.

The other issue was his diet. Docteur Boureau was quite clearly a garlic devotee. Whilst I applaud anyone who follows a healthy regime, it can be rather off putting when second-hand waves of garlic fumes scream through the mask of one’s dentist merely centimetres away.

The last straw for me came one day last summer, and it had nothing to do with dentistry. It was a boiling hot afternoon and I was wearing my usual tee-shirt, Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. Jack was still having his check-up so instead of gently melting in the sauna-like salle d’attente, I decided to wait outside in the relative cool of the street. Minding my own business, I was checking my phone for messages when there was a light tap on my shoulder.

I looked down and there was a very grubby oldish man leering up at me. Resisting the inclination to recoil and run for the hills, I asked him what he wanted. He smiled gummily at me and, reaching into his mac pocket (which seemed altogether the wrong attire for that day), he produced a scabby 20 euro note. Still clueless, I repeated my question which seemed to delight him, and brought on a decidedly unpleasant chesty spasm. Fortunately, well-practised at this particular skill, he spat the unwanted gubbins in a different direction to ours. Once recovered, he pointed in the direction of a herd of wheelie bins and asked me if I would like to join him in his apartment. And just in case I was in any doubt as to what he wanted, he sealed the generosity of his offer by giving me a knowing wink and proffering the 20 euro note under my nose. The penny finally dropped.

I’m not sure which horrified me more, being propositioned by a man who was probably stark naked under his dirty mac, or that I was only worth 20 euros. I managed to stifle a scream, refused him in my typically polite, frightfully British way, and scurried off back to the car. So that was that, we needed to find a different dentist.

As luck would have it our insurance man came to visit and recommended an alternative clinic in the local city of Montauban. In France all dental care is paid for by the patient, but the rates can vary considerably. Despite Jack’s whinges about it probably being ridiculously expensive I went ahead and booked our first appointment. What a difference!

We found our city centre location easily, and drove into the private carpark. Ambling between the landscaped rockeries and assortment of Zen-inspired borders, we arrived at the single-storey building and pressed the entry buzzer. As if by magic it swung open and we were ushered into the reception area.

The first clue that this might turn into a fairly pricey establishment was the arrival of our dentist’s personal assistant. Each dentist in the practice had one. We filled out a wad of forms and were led down a plush corridor to the semi-open plan salle d’attente, which was more like an aquarium. One wall masqueraded as a fish tank. It was filled with shoals of colourful fish which drifted around dreamily, oozing calm and tranquillity. Another wall was made of glass and offered further views of the Zenful garden, and the final section contained abstract art, which was gentle to the eye and enabled even the most nervous client to banish the ominous sound of dentists’ drills. It was all very pleasing.

When our turn came we were plucked out of our cosy cocoon and wafted into the dentist’s room, which was pristinely clean and could easily have housed six practitioners. It also had the interesting addition of a small gallery of observer chairs.

Docteur Cabane proved to be every bit as good as our insurance man had said. She was extremely polite, listened intently to what we said, and even spoke the odd word of English. She attended to her work with great care and attention too. We were very impressed. So much so that Jack only winced a little when we were presented with the unimaginably enormous bill at the end.

When I had my unfortunate tooth chipping incident I was absolutely confident that our new dentist could fix it in a trice. I booked us both in (Jack just for a check-up) and we arrived on the appointed day. Docteur Cabane, perfectly punctual as usual, shepherded us into her treatment room and decided to sort me out first.

While her assistant unfurled a brand new set of instruments, our dentist kitted herself out. This was a very thorough business. I’m not sure whether Docteur Cabane had experienced a life-threatening trauma at some time during her early career, but she certainly left nothing to chance now. She wore safety glasses, a theatre mask then a clear Perspex faceguard over the lot. She could have been chewing on a clove of garlic for all the patient knew, there was no possibility of any fumes escaping that protective covering. She then donned her extra-long rubber gloves and we were off.

It only took her a second to spot the offender on my bottom set. With a gentle utterance of “Oh la la,” she slotted a cotton-wool sausage between my gum and bottom lip and fired up her drill. This was a tense moment. I hadn’t been injected and was certain that it could only be moments before the instrument struck a nerve. Feeling it might be useful to mention this unusual omission I tried my best to alert her. But speech was difficult with a lump of hard material that felt like a railway sleeper in my mouth. Instead I made injection squirting motions with my hand in an attempt to attract her attention.

Quick as a flash the ultra-sensitive Docteur Cabane detected my anxiety, moved her drill to one side and looked at me enquiringly. I attempted to explain the situation, but of course communication was difficult. The cotton log had swollen, and the tube which she had now hooked onto my mouth was doing its best to suck the rest of my teeth out. Nevertheless, I managed to burble, “Njekshun” which she seemed to understand. She waved away my concerns, explained that there was no risk of hitting a nerve, and re-ignited her machine.

Somewhat comforted I stared fixedly at her floaty Zen mobile, trying to ignore the whine of the drill. Happily the tortuous sounds didn’t last long, but my feelings of relief were short-lived. Our diligent dentist downed tools, peered at my chipped tooth from several angles and then pronounced herself dissatisfied. Her drill wasn’t man-enough for the job – more substantial equipment would be needed. After a short debate with her assistant she was handed something that looked like an industrial grinder. Muttering something sweet about getting everything ‘just right’ she probably smiled, pressed a button and the machine roared into life.

I’m not sure what was worse, the smell of burning coming from my tooth as it was being ground down, or the torrent of water gushing out of another tube that had mysteriously made its way into my mouth. The sucky tube had now stuck itself to a gum and was of no practical use whatsoever, which left me at real risk of drowning. Nobody likes a dribbler, so I started waving again to attract my dentist’s attention. Unfortunately she was so intent on her grinding that she didn’t seem to notice my protestations. Fortunately Jack, relaxing in an observer’s chair, did.

“Why on earth are you waving? Just keep still, you’ll put poor Docteur Cabane off.”

Not a remotely helpful comment in itself, but it did distract Docteur Cabane for long enough for me to attempt a swallow, and un-stick the sucky tube. Nicely reassembled, she set to work once again.

Finally all equipment was removed from my mouth and I was handed a beaker of pink mouthwash to rinse out the remaining particles of tooth and strings of cotton wool. She handed me a dental mirror and we both studied her handiwork.

At first glance I think we both felt that it was a job well done. Yes, the tooth was a little lower than the others now but, as Jack annoyingly reminded me, “That’s what happens when you eat too many Grannie Smith apples.” I thanked our dentist for her help, un-bibbed myself, clambered out of the chair and went over to the large wall mirror to have a proper look. Docteur Cabane came over to join me and motioned for Jack to sit in the treatment chair.

We both examined my bottom row of teeth. Unfortunately something wasn’t quite right. The act of grinding the chipped tooth into shape had caused two others (one either side) to stick up somewhat.  

“Ah, I did not see this before,” commented Docteur Cabane (in French), the personification of concern.

“No, nor me,” I replied, searching for the correct French word, “it’s this tooth here,” I said tapping a sticky-up one, “it looks a bit…”

“Vampire! Yes, I know, you look like a vampire,” Docteur Cabane concluded with absolute sincerity.

This was a tad mortifying, that wasn’t at all what I was going to say. But now that she’d mentioned it, I suppose I did. I nodded morosely.

“This is no good, I must work again on your teeth,” she added decisively.

With that, Jack, now grumbling about me taking so long over a single tooth, was ejected from the dental chair and returned to the gallery. I was re-positioned, re-bibbed and Docteur Cabane was supplied with a brand new pair of rubber gloves and completely new set of instruments. My mouth was re-filled with tubes and bolsters and she began to grind vigorously on the latest offenders.  

The smell of burning was becoming significant, but my anxious thoughts about accidental combustion were quashed by the new deluge of water that bypassed the sucky tube and flowed down my throat again. I was also becoming slightly worried that if we carried on like this my bottom row of teeth would be reduced to stumps. Happily, before that concern took root, she stopped. Everything was removed, I swallowed, and we paced back over to the big mirror for another look. Docteur Cabane made her pronouncement, this time in English.

“Yes. This is good. You have the, how you say in English, la vague.”

“Oh dear. A wave in the water?”

“Ah, yes, thank you. Now you have the wave where the chipped tooth is lower but you are not looking like the vampire any more. This is a good thing.”

A wave – I could live with that. Mightily relieved that I still had a bottom row of teeth left after all that grinding, I thanked our diligent dentist profusely and swapped places with Jack.

Jack has been entirely merciless with his teeth over the years, subjecting them to bouts of neglect and gallons of Coca Cola and coffee amongst other tooth-decaying substances. This has taken its toll but there is still a small battalion of hangers-on left. Docteur Cabane takes each one extremely seriously. After fishing around for a bit, she repeated her lecture to him about dental care and the need to cherish the dwindling army. Already irritated by our prolonged treatment session he rapidly gargled various promises to treat the remaining survivors with the respect they deserved. He then removed the tubes and sprang out of the chair.  

We were finally done, me with a reformed bottom set and Jack with a posh new soft bristle toothbrush. We bade farewell to our lovely dentist and returned to reception where we were presented with another eye watering bill. But it was all worth it. We had avoided grubby back streets and buzzers that were never answered. We had received first class treatment from a superb dentist, and I hadn’t been propositioned. My chipped tooth had been sorted out and I no longer looked like Dracula’s bride. All in all it had been a successful visit to the dentist.